 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
111
A Hunting-SONG.
Hark! hark! the shrill Horn
Rouses up the dull Morn,
And merrily calls us away,
No more let us steep
Our Senses in Sleep.
But to Hunting devote the new Day.
Tan-Twivee.
Rouses up the dull Morn,
And merrily calls us away,
No more let us steep
Our Senses in Sleep.
But to Hunting devote the new Day.
Tan-Twivee.
112
Whilst the Greenwood resounds
With the Cries of the Hounds,
And the Hallooing of Sportsmen so clear,
A Fig for your Court!
There's Nothing of Sport
With Hunting the Fox can compare.
Tan-Twivee.
With the Cries of the Hounds,
And the Hallooing of Sportsmen so clear,
A Fig for your Court!
There's Nothing of Sport
With Hunting the Fox can compare.
Tan-Twivee.
Let Dotards and Fools.
And such heavy Tools,
Keep the Pillow close under their Head,
Whilst the Morn from her Height
Looks with Shame on the Sight,
And blushes to see 'em a-bed.
Tan-Twivee.
And such heavy Tools,
Keep the Pillow close under their Head,
Whilst the Morn from her Height
Looks with Shame on the Sight,
And blushes to see 'em a-bed.
Tan-Twivee.
113
'Tis Hunting inspires,
Fresh Health and fresh Fires,
For sweet is the Breath of the Morn:
Then a Fig for dull Cares,
And all State-Affairs,
We'll follow the Hounds and the Horn.
Tan-Twivee.
Fresh Health and fresh Fires,
For sweet is the Breath of the Morn:
Then a Fig for dull Cares,
And all State-Affairs,
We'll follow the Hounds and the Horn.
Tan-Twivee.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |